Molto adagio (English)

The old move in. Slowly and clumsily, not of their own volition and without somebody else’s help. Tiresomely they move their old-fashioned furniture, their antediluvian opinions and dogged pains in their joints.

With shaking limbs they look in vain for switches on the unfamiliar walls of their new living space. They can’t manage to switch on the light in a twilight of loneliness and unknowing.

Pointlessly they utter all the words, which they now remember with difficulty. Their own words no longer mean anything to them. They don’t understand them. They’ve forgotten what they were for. They remind them of nothing.

For them. For honoured and precious persons, to whom respect and gratitude are due.

The old move in. Tediously and maladroitly, unintentionally and completely alone. Sluggishly they move their old-fashioned furniture, out-of-date opinions and importunate pains in their joints.

Persistently and unpleasantly they touch us with their trembling extremities. Dejectedly they catch us by the throat.

The old move in on us. Little by little and inexpertly, willy-nilly and under their own steam. Strenuously we move our obsolete furniture, used-up opinions and painful joints. And other things which have already served their purpose.

Inconspicuously and unavoidably we become honoured and precious persons to whom respect and gratitude are due.

Tenaciously and depressingly we continue in the persistence of our actions, fluently sliding into the punch lines of stories of course like the hands of a clock.

With our head we direct all the way down ready to strike the precise time.

And above us a blue sky yawns incomprehensibly into which the wind flings the glittering mirrors of memory.